


Lost In Fire And Ash

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:38:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Wrapped up in guilt over his father’s death, high powered attorney, Sam Winchester takes on a charity case for his Uncle Bobby. Dean Campbell, a Fire Inspection Officer, stands accused of neglect and causing the death of a fellow comrade. With so much evidence against Dean it looks like this case is lost before Sam’s even started his defence. But is everything what it seems? As Dean struggles to cope with his life descending into chaos, Sam finds himself growing attached to his new charge. While behind the scenes someone is working hard to make sure Dean gets convicted.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Thanks to Tishawyman for the idea, I've only played with it a little. This is fanfiction, so apologies for any inaccuracies!

Sam Winchester studied the file on his desk with resignation. He didn’t like being coerced into taking on a charity case, and especially not one which came via his Uncle Bobby. 

 

Picking up the brown, stained folder he broke the clasp and began to read. It was every bit as dreadful as he’d expected. Why in the world had he agreed to this? Peer pressure wasn’t it, but maybe guilt was.

 

At twenty eight, Sam Winchester was a bright and successful attorney. Working in a smaller family law firm had seen his star ricochet rapidly to the top; attaining Senior Partner after just four years from starting as an intern. Four years, where Sam had worked until the early hours of the morning, backing up his cases with painstaking research. 

 

He was proud of what he’d achieved, and that he could live by his belief that Sam Winchester had achieved success by being honest and hardworking. 

 

Ironically, neither of those were qualities Sam had picked up from his father. 

 

John Winchester had been a drunk who liked taking short cuts. A private detective, for the majority of his adult life, John had worked the lower rungs of society’s ladder, often with his long time friend and Sam’s pseudo Uncle - Bobby Singer. Taking on the cases where the client couldn’t afford to pay. John would listen to the hard luck stories of the homeless, or take home beaten up prostitutes, until they robbed him blind. In John’s world the rule book was for people who didn’t want to solve cases. In Sam’s mind, John was cutting corners and taking chances anywhere he could to get a result. That is, until the fateful night when John Winchester cut one corner too many. 

 

Sam remembers that day vividly. It will haunt him forever; going down to the city morgue to identify his father, accompanied by a hard faced cop and a guilty looking Bobby Singer. Listening to the report on how John died. Knowing that his father had helped out one thieving bitch too many. Reading how John had bled out from the stab wounds inflicted by a disgruntled gang member’s knife. It’s a painful recollection of going all slone to the funeral home to pick out a coffin. It still causes Sam’s fingers itch as he recalls running his hands along the smooth edges; the plain and simple casket something John would have liked. 

 

It didn’t feel like two years ago. It seemed like yesterday. Sam can still recall his last conversation with John almost word for word. 

 

“You’re a good boy Sammy, but the streets aren’t any place for a man like you. Guess that’s why you didn’t follow in my footsteps.”

 

“I’m doing my bit for justice!” Sam had defended angrily. It was the same old conversation they’d had for the last ten years; Sam defying his father to go off and study law. Neither man speaking to each other until Bobby had intervened and called the pair of them ‘idjits’. 

 

Six hours later, John Winchester was dead and there was nothing that Sam could do to bring him back. Everything John had touched had been bad news. In fact virtually everyone John had known when he was alive had been bad news. This file, it just proved it. Sam shook his head, he should have known better than to take on a friend of John and Bobby’s.

 

He remembers his breakfast meeting, when a world weary Bobby had shoved the file under his nose.

 

“Please Sam. I knew his father, he was a good man. Trust me. Dean doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him. He’s only ever tried to save lives.” Bobby pleaded as he speared a greasy sausage.

 

Sam, who hated run down dives like this was half heartedly picking at the contents on his plate frowning. “Is this another sob story? I do have cases that actually make me money you know. You might like to try one some time!”

 

Bobby, ignoring the jibe, rubbed a hand over his rough face. He hadn’t slept in a couple of days, and he really didn’t need Sam’s attitude. John might have been proud of his son’s success, but that didn’t exempt him from thinking Sam was a first class ass.

 

“You really are piece of work. It’s a good job your mother isn’t around to see what a soulless jerk you are!”

 

Sam blinked, Bobby only brought Mary’s name up when something was really bothering him, and nothing ever bothered Bobby much these days.

 

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “Do you want to tell me what’s eating you? Or do we have to play fifty questions?”

 

Bobby glared, and shoved a tattered file under Sam’s nose. “It’s this guy. Dean. The one I was telling you about.”

 

Sam took the file, but didn’t open it. “Go on,” he prompted.

 

Bobby tapped the folder with his fork. “Dean Campbell, he’s a Fire Protection Inspector based in Brooklyn. He did a routine inspection over at Engine 199, but somehow he overlooked some stuff. He’s been accused of failing to repair a faulty air conditioning unit and complete a thorough check on chemical hazards on site. It’s the usual story - fire broke out, toxic smoke and all that shit, but it caused the subsequent death of an officer.”

 

Sam raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Is he really guilty of neglect? Or is he being hung out to dry?” 

 

Bobby’s face looked grim. “He’s been stitched up somehow, I’m sure of it. Dean’s a good one, and that ‘ain’t a lie. I’ve tried, but I can’t get to the bottom of this one, so I figure his best chances are a good attorney - you. Help him Sam, he needs it.”

 

Those were the words that have stayed with Sam all morning – ‘help him Sam, he needs it’. Bobby had made that plea once before. Only the first time, Sam hadn’t listened. Would it have made a difference to how John Winchester had spent the last days of his life? Sam’s not so sure it would, but still plays on his conscience. 

 

Flicking through the statements, Sam quickly saw that the case was virtually watertight. Dean Campbell had logged into the Station of Engine 199 at eight o’clock in the morning. On his work log for the day he’d inspected all fire suppression and extinguishing systems, and repaired a faulty air conditioning unit before taking a lunch break around 12.30 pm. At 1.30 pm he was called to the Chiefs office for a round of the morning’s report, but then there was an unexplained gap until 3.50 pm before he went on to complete some more repairs. Dean’s last task of the day was to check the premises for materials that could be a fire hazard or explosion. By 5.15 pm Dean had given the Station a clean bill of health and at 5.30 pm clocked off. 

 

At 2.30 am in the morning an explosion had rocketed through the building. By 3 am one man lay dead and two further members of the fire crew were injured.

 

It was all in black and white. Even without the suspicious 2 hour gap, which Dean had refused to explain according to the statement, there was sufficient evidence from the debris to show Dean had done a sloppy job. The air condition unit had not been wired properly and an old gas canister had been found at the bottom of a back stairwell.

 

Case closed. Dean would probably go to jail.

 

Except…..Sam turned to the last page. Well, this was unexpected!

 

There was a copy of the ‘The Heralds’ front page from that dreadful night. It was the usual blown out of proportion journalism that Sam detested, but there at the bottom corner was a photograph. A photograph of Dean Campbell. It was a screaming, crying, Dean who was being held by from the flames by two fire crew from another Engine. 

 

It set Sam’s mind thinking.

 

The shock and horror on Dean’s face was visible for all to see, and where the reporter had gone on to label him the culprit, it didn’t sit with Sam. From just being another member of FDNY on the scene, Dean had become the chief suspect as the paper went to print. It was too fast. Too easy. Why, and how, would the reporter have known Dean had been in the building that day? Even more puzzling, some of the other photos in the paper indicated that the photographer had been on the scene in minutes of the explosion. 

 

It didn’t make any sense.

 

Sam frowned and tossed the file on the table with a groan. Damn! Bobby Singer had known Sam would spot the question mark hanging over this case.

 

With resignation in his heart, Sam buzzed his secretary. “Ruby, I need you to find out if a Dean Campbell from FDNY is being held somewhere, or if he’s out on bail.”

 

There was a pause as Sam’s efficient secretary scribbled down a note. “Anything else?” she asked.

 

“Yes. Could you contact Jess and let her know I won’t make dinner.”

 

Before Ruby could ask another question Sam clicked the intercom off. Standing he pulled back the blinds that were blocking the late afternoon sunlight, and stretched. Revelling in the freedom of being away from his desk, Sam eased out the kinks in his left shoulder and cursed. That was another date he’d cancelled. In fact it was the second one in as many weeks. Jess was going to hate him. Shit! Yet, what could he do? Send flowers, or chocolates by way of an apology? Maybe write Jess a letter explaining why his job kept him working into the small hours?

 

“You are such a girl!” Sam admonished himself, and shook his head. This was what having a serious girlfriend, for the first time in four years, got you. 

 

From years of casual dating, Sam had stopped fucking around the second that he’d made Senior Partner. It wasn’t that he’d had to change his behaviour, it was a lifestyle choice he’d made when faced with the knowledge he had an image to protect. He was expected to attend functions with a regular girlfriend and not a different piece of skirt each week. Not that Sam had ever had the morals of an alley cat. He was more of the ‘permanent commitment’ type, and his dates had either not wanted to be labelled Sam’s ‘wife’, or they just didn’t click. 

 

Jess clicked though. Almost too perfectly, and Sam was rather enjoying being in a solid relationship. It wasn’t for the novelty value either. Meeting Jess Moore had been the best thing that had happened to him in a very, very long while. Jess was on the board of a private company that was flying high on the stock exchange. Sam had met her at a charity luncheon, and had been impressed at how easily she’d blended in with business men twice her age. Talking stocks and shares and buyouts of large corporations amid some of NY's finest minds, Sam had been more than a little impressed. 

 

So, impressed that Sam had contacted Jess’ office personally, and asked her out on a date. 

 

Two cancelled dates later, however, and Sam was expecting that golden gilding was going to wear off. Feeling like a coward he took out his Blackberry and typed a short email.

 

‘I’m sorry. I have a case I need to focus on. I promise I’ll be done for nine and we can grab a quiet take out.’ Sam hit send before he could change his mind.

 

He looked back at the brown case file and scowled resentfully. “I hope you’re worth it Dean Campbell.”


End file.
